“I’m surprised you still care about my opinion,” snapped Thomas. His slight smile had vanished. “Unfortunately, I’m not an eye surgeon. I don’t have the slightest idea of whether you should have a vitrectomy. That’s why I sent you to Obermeyer.”
Cassi could feel his rising anger. It was just as she feared. Telling him about her eye condition was only going to make matters worse.
“Besides,” said Thomas. “Isn’t there a better time to talk about this kind of thing? I’ve got someone dying upstairs. You’ve had this problem with your eye for months. Now you show up when I’m in the middle of an emergency and want to discuss it. My God, Cassi. Think about other people once in a while, will you?”
Thomas stalked over to the door, wrenched it open, and was gone.
In a lot of ways Thomas was right, thought Cassi. Bringing up the problem of her eye in Thomas’s office was inappropriate. She knew when he said he had a patient “dying upstairs,” he meant it.
Her jaw clenched, Cassi walked out of the office. Doris made a show of typing, but Cassi guessed she’d been listening. Walking down to the elevators, Cassi decided to go back to Clarkson Two. It would keep her from thinking too much. Besides, she knew she couldn’t drive, at least not for a while.
She got back to the ward while the afternoon team meeting was still in progress.
Cassi had arranged to take the rest of the day off and did not feel up to joining the group. She was afraid if she were among friends her delicate control would crumble and she’d burst into tears.
Thankful for the unexpected opportunity of reaching her office unobserved, she slipped inside and quickly closed the door behind her. Stepping around the metal and Formica desk, which practically spanned the width of the room, she settled herself into the aged swivel desk chair. Cassi had tried to liven the cubbyhole with several bright prints of Impressionist paintings she bought at the Harvard co-op. The effort hadn’t helped much. With its harsh overhead fluorescent lighting, the room still looked like an interrogation cell.
Resting her head in her hands, she tried to think, but all she could concentrate on were her problems with Thomas. She was almost relieved when there was a sharp knock on the door. Before she could answer it, William Bentworth stepped inside.
“Mind if I sit down, Dr. Cassidy?” asked Bentworth with uncharacteristic politeness.
“No,” said Cassi, surprised to see the colonel entering her office on his own accord. He was carefully dressed in tan slacks and a freshly pressed plaid shirt. His shoes evidenced a spit-and-polish shine.
He smiled. “Mind if I smoke?”
“No,” said Cassi. She did mind, but it was one of those sacrifices she felt she had to make. Some people needed all the help they could get in order to open up and talk. On occasion the process of lighting a cigarette was an important crutch. Bentworth leaned back and smiled. For the first time his brilliant blue eyes seemed cordial and warm. He was a handsome man, with broad shoulders, thick dark hair, and angular, aristocratic features.
“Are you all right, Doctor?” asked Bentworth, leaning forward again to examine Cassi’s face.
“I’m perfectly fine. Why do you ask?”
“You look a bit distraught.”
Cassi looked up at the Monet print of the little girl and her mother in the poppy field. She tried to collect her thoughts. It frightened her a little to realize that a patient could be so perceptive.
“Perhaps you feel guilty,” offered Bentworth, considerately blowing smoke away from Cassi.
“And why should I feel guilty?”
“Because I think you have been deliberately avoiding me.”
Cassi remembered Jacob’s comment about borderline personalities being inconsistent, and she contrasted Bentworth’s current behavior with his previous refusal to talk to her.
“And I know why you’ve been avoiding me,” continued Bentworth. “I think I scare you. I’m sorry if that’s the case. Having been in the army so long and being accustomed to giving orders, I suppose I can be overbearing at times.”
For the first time in Cassi’s short psychiatric career, something that she’d read in the literature was occurring spontaneously between herself and one of her patients. She knew, without any doubt, that Bentworth was trying to manipulate her.
“Mr. Bentworth…” began Cassi.
“Colonel Bentworth,” corrected William with a smile. “If I call you Doctor, it’s only reasonable you call me Colonel. It’s a sign of mutual respect.”
“Fair enough,” said Cassi. “The fact of the matter is that you have been the one who has made it impossible for us to have a session together. I’ve tried, if you can remember, on numerous occasions to schedule a meeting, but you have always professed to have a prior commitment. Now I understand that you get more out of the group milieu than private conversation, so I haven’t pushed the situation. If you’d like to meet, let’s schedule it.”
“I would love to talk with you,” said Bentworth. “How about right now? I have the time. Do you?”
Cassi was not willing to fall prey to Bentworth’s manipulation, thinking that it would ultimately have a negative effect on their relationship. She wasn’t prepared now and Bentworth did frighten her despite his newly found charm.
“How about tomorrow morning?” said Cassi. “Right after team meeting.”
Colonel Bentworth stood up and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on Cassi’s desk. “All right. I’ll look forward to it. And I hope whatever is troubling you works out for the best.”
After he was gone, Cassi breathed the smoky air while her mind envisioned Colonel Bentworth in a dress uniform. She could imagine he would be gallant and dashing, and his mental problems would seem fictitious. Knowing the depth of his disorder, she found the fact that it could be so easily camouflaged disturbing.
Before she could even dictate her notes, her door opened again, and Maureen Kavenaugh came in and sat down. Maureen had been admitted a month previously for recurrent major depression. She’d had a serious setback when her husband had come in and slapped her around. Seeing her out of her room was as much a surprise as having William Bentworth voluntarily pay a visit. Cassi wondered if some miracle drug were being secretly added to the patients’ food.
“I saw the colonel go into your office,” said Maureen. “I thought you said you weren’t going to be here this afternoon.” Her voice was flat and emotionless.
“I hadn’t planned on it,” said Cassi.
“Well, since you are here, can I talk to you for a moment?” asked Maureen timidly.
“Of course,” said Cassi. She watched Maureen advance into the room, closing the door and sitting down.
“Yesterday when we talked…” Maureen hesitated and her eyes filled with tears.
Cassi pushed the box of tissues toward the woman.
“You… you asked me if I’d like to see my sister.” Maureen’s voice was so low that Cassi could barely hear. She nodded quickly, wondering what Maureen was thinking. The woman had not shown much interest in anything since her relapse even though Cassi had started her on Elavil. At team meeting several people had suggested electric shock, but Cassi had argued against it, thinking the Elavil and supportive sessions would be adequate. What amazed Cassi was Maureen’s insight into the dynamics of her condition. But for Maureen an understanding of her illness did not automatically give her the power to influence it.
Maureen acknowledged her hostility to her mother, who had abandoned both Maureen and her younger sister when they were toddlers, and the repressed jealousy she felt toward that pretty younger sister who had run off and married, leaving Maureen to live by herself. Out of desperation she’d married an inappropriate man.
“Do you think my sister would want to see me?” asked Maureen finally, her face wet with tears.
“I think she might,” said Cassi. “But we won’t know unless you ask her.”